Everything’s brown, grey; dead
Sad, bare trees, ash in the skies
A drab haze seeping through eyes into head
Pale sun whispering; too weak to rise

March is the month of all things dead
Not yet buried, silent and still
Along the streets of this city made of lead
Withered leaves rustle; to silence fill

March is the month of all things resting
Recovering; silent and strong
Longing for life, that sunshine brings
Newborn leaves, will sing a new song



*I don’t know if you remember, but this is one of the three poems I told you about, the ones that “fell into my head” within the span of one hour, the other day on my way home. The other two will follow in the next few days.*


(Text: Β©SurvivedNarc, image credits1:AkosMajor/Designyoutrust, 2:reneekeith.com/found in Pinterest)